Brooke Forbes

This country speaks to me in poetry,

In a succession of moments flashing, 

Before my unsealing eyes. 

It’s in the tiny flock of zebra finches, 

Drinking from water gathered under the road grid,

And how they move, together,

An uncharted mass,

Switching shapes and forming shadows, 

Unique separately but together a force. 

It’s in the wildflowers,

Lining the road to Ilparpa,

Wild desert cassia on one side,

And regeneration on the other,

The lingering after-growth of recovering fallen logs from a recent grass fire,

Reclaiming life again. 

It’s in the shape of the red rocks in Trephina Gorge,

Jutting out,

Squaring away,

Forming shadows to seek shelter in,

Adding the colour red to a blue blue sky. 

It’s an awakening, of sort,

This process of new being, from the seaside city to the desert,

And a returning, of sorts, 

Back to creativity again,

And as such, a type of homecoming. 

Through these moments,

I have found a way, 

To return home. 

They are moments of gratitude,

Moments of joy 

Moments of healing,

Moments of uncharted might. 

Together they swell,

Forming new memories,

Marking time not with repetition but with renewal, rejuvenation, adventure and an uncovering. 

This creation is worlds within worlds,

All moving,

All creating,

All bound in a 

A desert metamorphosis.